


The Beauty of the Void - Appendices

by Artemysia93



Series: The Beauty of the Void [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Brothers, Crows, Cyrodiil, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Love, Melancholy, Nostalgia, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Short One Shot, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-07-01 05:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15767934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemysia93/pseuds/Artemysia93
Summary: These are some appendices to my main work, "The Beauty of the Void", which you can read here on Ao3. Chapters I couldn't include in the main book, curiosities about secondary charatchters and, who knows, maybe some erotic one shot... but you must have read the main story, soooo sorry! :3





	1. No crows in Cyrodiil

**Author's Note:**

> INDEX:  
> 1 - No crows in Cyrodiil  
> 2 - Life is an aviary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first appenidx and, since it's set exactly after the end of the main work, IT'S FULL OF SPOILERS! Read at your own risk! In this piece Cicero's returning in Cyrodiil to meet his old family and to see again a certain olive tree... enjoy!

Cyrodiil was as he remembered it and at the same time different. The heat was the same, for example, but not Cicero's attitude towards it: having been too long in Skyrim, perhaps, had finally accustomed him and partly converted him to the cold of the eternal winter. Again, the color of the world was the same, bright green, luxuriant; yet it seemed strange in the eyes of the one who, for so long, had been surrounded by the white of snow, or the pale yellow of the dry tundra. However, the only thing that Cicero complained aloud was perhaps the least interesting, to the unaware ears of a stranger: " _There are no crows here._ "

The conductor of the stable, who was about to take the horse and put it to rest, gave Cicero a strange look.

"Sorry?"

"There are no crows in Cyrodiil." Cicero repeated, his mind elsewhere.

"Um... not many, no. Are you new around here?"

Cicero looked to the right and saw the massive white walls of the capital. He had a feeling of ineptitude, in front of their magnificence. A little how it happened with the Throat of the World, yes, only that these were more scary, they were too... artificial.

"Ah, to Cicero it seems to be new, yes. He has been away for so long that maybe he has never been here."

The woman nodded, undecided. Cicero saw her squeeze her lips in embarrassment at not knowing what to say. She reminded him... no. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t have to think about it.

Cicero tried to change the subject.

"Watch out for the purse, miss. It's a little too inviting for thieves, so bloated, we don’t want someone to attack you."

It came out less jokingly than he wanted and the girl took it as a threat. Her face became icy. Cicero, then, spread a false smile. He wondered how long it would’ve taken for a smile to came back to be a natural gesture.

"Oh, sorry, Cicero is a bit… distracted. He didn’t want to upset you, it was a honest advice. A thieve stole Cicero’s purse right this morning."

It wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter, because she believed it and relaxed.

"Ah, I'm sorry, thanks for the warning. I wish you a good stay in the Imperial City, jester!"

Cicero smiled and bowed, taking off his hat. He didn’t put it back, because he realized he had a sweaty neck. He was no longer used to it, Cyrodiil was rejecting him like a foreign body. He was no longer used to many things: the heat, the green, the absence of crows, and not even to the local women. Beautiful, Imperials. He felt them closer than Nord women, and maybe it wasn’t good for them. Well, closer, if only it hadn’t been so hard to come back to admire them after...

No.

Enough.

Cicero sighed, smiled again.

"Thank you my dear. You’re very kind."

She blushed. Like her. Always like her. Everything sent back to her.

Cicero couldn’t bear it anymore.

 

 

The Imperial City never sleeps. This is very clear to its citizens, and even Cicero thought it was clear to him. Actually he had been too long away to remember the swarming of people in Talos Plaza, or the clamor of the merchant's district, or the vulgar language of the sailors of the harbor. He was almost astonished not to immediately remember which way to go to his house, in the Elven Gardens district. It would’ve been enough to turn left, it would’ve been very close, and instead he took the right, the long way, circumventing the whole circular and perfect form of the city. But perhaps it wasn’t because he couldn’t remember the way. Maybe he was just trying to postpone the inevitable.

But he could’ve visited the Waterfront first, right? That had been his real home, during childhood. It deserved to be visited first, compared to Velleius Nero’s villa.

Cicero then walked slowly, trying to waste as much time as possible and enjoy the small details: the white marble, cracked but still stable; the mighty shadow of the tower of the Imperial Palace, which almost covered an entire district; the colonnade that flanked the road; the statues of warriors in imperial uniform, pretorian helmet, unsheathed short sword; the writings, carved or painted on the walls, of political propaganda, news, or simple gossip; and finally, there was the Waterfront. It opened in front of him like a crescent moon, or a reaper's scythe: the semicircle that welcomed the tired ships like a hug, as soon as they returned from the exhausting ascent of the Niben river.

He could almost see himself, as a child, sitting on the platform and with his short legs dangling, barely touching the water. He remembered the sailors, his friends, who had taught him how to make knots, unaware that he would’ve used that knowledge for purposes that they definitely wouldn’t have approved.

Cicero spread an oblique, tired, sad smile. Nostalgia was bad, really bad for someone like him. And he knew that it would’ve never been better, on the contrary... he knew that from then on he would’ve had to endure an even greater nostalgia, that of a woman. Was it normal? Was it normal not to feel able to do the simplest things on his own? In recent times he had been the one to cure her, but now it was Cicero himself who needed help. He would’ve sworn not to remember how to even hold a fork. Everything seemed unnatural, all mechanical, like a Dwemer artifact. All fake, fictitious, indeed, more: fetish. He felt like everyone was playing a part, including him. As if they spied him, as if it were the universe itself to make fun of him. He wouldn’t have been ready to swear that he really was alive in the world. Maybe it was just a stage, and he was a puppet.

He took one last look at the Waterfront, the water beaded with light in the heat of late spring, and then he set off. He looked for a few familiar faces as he crossed the quay, but found no one.

 

 

He came from the back of the villa. A little because it was really the side that he reached first, a little because he didn’t feel ready to enter the main entrance. There was the olive tree there and... he needed a moment, yes, just a moment, to get used. Because he knew that his stupid and insane madness made him hope to see her there, sitting under that tree; and he also knew she wouldn’t have been there, and he wasn’t sure he could survive that disappointment.

Then he postponed again. He knocked on the service door, the slaves' door. If the parent had seen him do something like that she would’ve beaten him up. What shame would it be for a family member to enter from behind? It's a bit like sodomizing the house. And do you want to disrespect the house, Cicero? Of course not.

Of course yes.

What respect could a house of horror deserve? For him that place had always been hell, worse than Sithis' wrath. Yet nostalgia also clung to that villa. Traitor, nostalgia. Infamous, nostalgia. It almost made him hope to see the impluvium, the stupid impluvium, even if Cicero wouldn’t want to remember anything of that house.

He heard someone move inside and finally the door opened up. He saw a young, feminine face he didn’t know. The girl was dressed in rags, she must have been a servant.

"A jester!" she exclaimed immediately, without even letting him talk, "no, we don’t need a jester for the party! Go, now, we’re busy!"

She almost closed the door, but Cicero was faster. He put his foot in, prevented her from closing. He tried to spread a smile, but he felt anger inside, and he didn’t like it.

"Miss," he hissed, desiring to kill her, now, now, now, breaking her neck and throwing it in the street, "Miss, this jester isn’t here for whatever reason you thought. And to make you understand how serious he is on the subject, he... intimates you... with good manners... to call the dominus, if he still lives here and if he still lives, in general. Cassio Nero. Tell him Cicero wants to see him."

The girl was stunned, perhaps frightened by his way of hissing. But that Cicero was dead, wasn’t he? The hateful and bad one. He didn’t want to treat women badly, or intimidate them, not even slaves.

Cicero spread a smile, therefore, as sincere as possible. He tried to reassure her.

"Sorry, my dear. Cicero today is a bit... eh... bipolar. He didn’t want to be rude. But really, Cassio Nero. Him. Need him. He’ll understand when you say Cicero’s name."

The girl relaxed her shoulders. She said nothing, but came back inside quietly, a sign that Cassio Nero was still alive, and was still in that damned villa.

Cicero waited impatiently. He sighed, forced himself to chuckle. It’s better to make yourself believe mad by passers-by rather than depressed. Better, yes. Because a madman doesn’t gain pity, and Cicero couldn’t stand pity.

Then, he appeared. Cassio.

He opened the back door, furrowed eyebrows and incredulous look. He was... like Cicero remembered him. Muscular, always fit, always handsome. The numerous accumulation of earthly revolutions around the sun had made him more mature, rough, wrinkled, had whitened some of his still many curly locks. But he was still strong and powerful, not at all crushed under the weight of old age.

Cicero approached, slowly, only one step. He thought he could see himself from outside, in the presence of the great general who his brother had become. He, short, eccentric, red haired and with a crazy look. How could that man be his brother?

"Cicero..."

He didn’t say anything else. Actually, he had never been very eloquent.

"Cassio. You're still alive, brother. The fear of not seeing you again was so great."

And he meant it seriously. He had loved his brother, really, and he knew his love was returned. But there still was Modia among them, and there would’ve always been. Modia, who even as a dead woman continued to be a scourge.

"Cicero, It’s... more than fifteen years, do you realize it?"

So he was scolding him. Really? He had never showed up either. Cicero had been in Cheydinhal for eight years, alone, unable to move and hoping with all his heart that Cassio would’ve come to him. But he had never arrived. He knew Cicero’s sanctuary was there, but he had never been interested. Coward. Ever since they were born, he had never taken initiative in anything.

"And yet you didn’t look for Cicero, you didn’t miss him apperently."

"I thought you were dead."

"Why? Just for Cicero’s job?" he chuckled "brother, it is indeed true that common assassins’ lives are usually short, but Cicero is not a common assassin. He believed he had given you a good example of his skills."

At that point, Cassio did something unexpected: he snapped towards him, threatening. Cicero stepped back, then both stopped.

"By Talos, lower your voice! Do you want everyone to know what you are?"

"What? Your brother or assassin? What are you more ashamed of?"

Cassio stared at him, cruel. More cruel than Cicero had ever seen him, to be honest. For a moment, he was proud of him.

"Ah, brother! Old age has taken you too! Life changes a man in so deep and unexpected ways, isn’t it? Look at Cicero, look at you, um... I wonder if those kids who once lived here have ever really existed."

Cassio relaxed, shook his head. He sighed and finally invited him to come in. Cicero thought it was more to not talk in the street than for actual hospitality, but he wasn’t offended. He could understand his brother, after all: who ever could want an assassin a in their house?

Cicero, then, followed him inside. As soon as he was in the kitchen he realized that some things had changed, some furniture, the arrangement of some things. It bothered him. He was a habitual person. He didn’t like changes.

Cassio led him into the inner courtyard, enclosed in the colonnade. In the middle, the impluvium. Dry.

"Where is the water?" exclaimed Cicero, surprised and disappointed.

Cassio was amazed, he looked at him as a madman, while he kept on walking.

"Those have been dry weeks, it has gone emptied. It’ll return, this drought can’t last forever."

But for Cicero, yes, it had lasted forever, and it would’ve ever lasted forever. Because that could be the last time he saw that impluvium, and he would’ve never wanted to see it dead, empty, full of dry leaves. It was almost... irreverent.

He remained silent. He followed Cassio and realized that he was leading him to a tudio, which once was  a servant chamber. There were less slaves. Perhaps they were less rich.

They entered and, just before Cassio closed the door behind them, Cicero noticed the decorations on the columns’ capitals: white flowers, veils. Why? The servant had spoken of a party.

And indeed, it was the first thing that Cassio mentioned.

"How did you know about the ceremony?"

But Cicero didn’t know what he was referring to.

"Ceremony? Which ceremony?"

"Aren’t you here for the ceremony?"

"No, Cicero is here for... for..."

He didn’t tell him, he didn’t want to.

Cassio sighed, exasperated, as they all did when talking with Cicero led nowhere. All but her. She, who had never treated him like a madman. She who had always seen him so normal...

"Clovia is getting married" explained Cassio, direct, "tonight she’ll bind with a good man, under the blessing of Mara. I thought you were here for this."

He sat down, sighing, and indicated to Cicero a small armchair on which to do the same. Cicero obeyed for courtesy, but actually sitting was getting him more agitated.

"Clovia, yes... Cicero... he’s here to see her. But he didn’t know she was getting married."

"Do you want to see her after all these years? Why?"

"He... he doesn’t know. No reason." he lied. But Cassio believed him. He believed everything.

Then Cassio changed the subject, and it hurt more than a stab in the heart:

"I thought time would’ve healed you, Cicero. But look at you... you're even worse than before. Why are you talking like that? And what the hell are those clothes?"

She had never made him feel guilty for his clothes. Maybe because she couldn’t see them? Maybe, yes. But maybe she wouldn’t have done it anyway, because she was like that: out of the crowd, and she could understand who like her was out of the crowd. Now that she was missing, Cicero had to get used again to people judging him. And he was doing it so incredibly badly, to be honest... so badly that on the way from Skyrim to Cyrodiil he had already plumped up the victims count of twenty units. So they would’ve learned not to judge... even better, they would’ve been judged by Sithis and they would’ve understood how bad it feels.

But not Cassio, no. It’s not good to kill brothers.

"Cicero... Cicero... he's better, actually. He is so... so ill, but once he was worse, he was more... hateful, um? Do you remember?"

Cassio nodded. Unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Yes. And I was more stupid."

This also made Cicero smile, sincerely.

"More... naive, Cassio. Don’t use bad words. "

Cicero would’ve liked to add " _mum wouldn’t want to_ ", but he knew that Cassio wasn’t suited to appreciate such a joke, and therefore he restrained himself.

Then, Cassio became more accommodating.

"Do you want to take part in the wedding?"

"Cicero... can he?" he asked more appealingly than he would’ve liked.

"Well... yes. You're part of the family, aren’t you? Just don’t kill anyone."

Cicero chuckled, shook his head.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, Cicero would never dare. At a marriage? Oh, what monster do you think he is? It's not good! Even if he had to kill the bride, he would at least wait for her to enjoy her wedding night."

Cassio didn’t even appreciate that one of a joke. Cicero knew he had to be more direct with him. Perhaps he had overestimated his elderly wisdom.

"Cicero was joking, Cassio. He won’t do anything, he swears. He just wants to see her, really, just to see her."

Cassio finally seemed to be convinced.

"All right, but you know perfectly well that we can’t tell her who you are. We don’t want to remind her... those things... on her wedding day. Get dressed better. And speak normally, please. I'll introduce you as... a distant acquaintance. All right?"

Cicero nodded too violently. And it came to him that, actually, the definition wasn’t so different from reality: what was he now, if not an acquaintance? Where was his home now, if not in the distant Skyrim?

 

 

There were so many people and Cicero felt out of place. He was wearing clothes that didn’t represent him, green jacket and white trousers, without a hat, without gloves. Why? Why did he always have to hide himself? First he hid Cicero through the jester, then hid the jester through that generic wedding guest they had forced him to be. He was adding more and more layers, and he was less and less himself.

People were staring at him less than usual without his jester clothes, yes, but he wasn’t at all comfortable: it meant that he was no longer interesting, he could easily merge with the environment and disappear, dissolve... and nobody would’ve remembered him.

No one would’ve remembered Cicero.

People were increasing, but no one knew him. Only Cassio knew who he was, and he didn’t introduce him to anyone. Because he was ashamed... he was ashamed of his crazy brother. And so Cicero stood still, fake and false, waiting for a bride who was not his with his shoulder on a column, staring at an impluvium without water.

And in the end, she entered. She emerged from one of the rooms together with two handmaids. Cicero looked up, saw her and... he thought he could die.

Clovia. Beautiful, Clovia. Cruel, Clovia.

She had become a beautiful woman. Chubby, plump, she gave the idea of being in good health and being able to give birth to at least an army of Imperial children, from her prosperous hips. The blond curls, long up to the waist, were adorned with flowers and ivy leaves. A garland on the head and a light veil to cover her round and jovial face.

Cicero didn’t move from his column. While the others were running to acclaim her, he stood motionless in his crossed arms, staring at her. He saw Cassio rushing to hug her and that was when Cicero felt more than ever a stranger. Far. A dangerous stranger in a house of good people.

He lowered his eyes, swallowed. He tried not to think about how pleasurable it had been to pull his sister's blonde curls and nearly kill her. He tried not to think about her white dress, her veil, her wreath of flowers, things he would’ve liked to see on another woman, and of which time hadn’t granted grace.

He squeezed the bone of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying not to cry. He had to behave normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal.

He raised his eyes and saw that Clovia was hugging other relatives. And then there he was, the groom, a mouse-haired boy. Too normal for her.

Normal?

Cicero had to stop thinking about that word. Normal. What does it mean, then? In norm. Standard. Which means boring. Here's what it is, normality: boredom.

He decided to get closer, trying to behave... boring. Boring. Boring. Like everyone else. He smiled, then, and stayed as quiet as possible, because he knew he would’ve ruined everything as soon as he had his mouth opened.

Cicero approached, annoyed by the crowd, and stared at Cassio insistently. He wanted him to introduce him. It took poor Cassio a while to understand, but Cicero didn’t blame him.

"Clovia, come, I have to introduce you to a person."

She was happy, radiant, smiling and pink. She turned away, distracted. She seemed to be too happy to understand what was going on.

"He’s... Lepido. An old friend of mine, we were doing business in Bravil together. He was in town and I invited him."

Clovia lit up. For a moment, Cicero hoped she remembered him, his face, his red hair, his smell, his name... something. Was there anything left og him in her mind? Anything?

Nothing. Because she smiled, bowed her head, and offered her hand to Cicero, to let him kiss it. A true lady. Like her mother.

Cicero bowed deeply, kissed her. He remained bent a little more than necessary, to try to drive back disappointment and tears. He smiled, pompous and false.

"What a beautiful bride! Regards."

She giggled, maybe a little stunned by the greatness of her wedding.

"Make yoursefl at home, Lepido. I'm glad to have you here today! The more we are, the better it is!"

"Even your mother thought so, about parties."

Well, good, Cicero. Exactly what you had not to say.

Cicero blamed himself. If he could’ve scourged himself, he would’ve done it. But the cold gaze of Cassio was enough, it hurt more than a thousand lashes.

"Er... I never met my mother, unfortunately. Did you know her?"

Cicero gathered all of his acting ability.

"Oh yes! Cic... well..." he had to be careful not to use verbs to refer to himself, because he really wasn’t able anymore to use the first person. Not if he had to lie, because the third person was made just for that... to never be sincere at all.

He tried again.

"Yes, long ago, when still a boy. She was a good woman, she would’ve loved you very much and she would’ve been so proud of you, seeing you today."

And of that he was sure. Modia? Modia, were you proud of her? Cicero was sorry to have driven you away, really. If it had been possible, he would’ve granted to you at least your daughter's wedding.

"Thanks, it's always nice to hear about her. Cassio doesn’t talk much about her."

Cicero glanced at Cassio and saw him look down. Coward, that's what he was. He hadn’t even managed to invent anything, some false but beautiful lie to give her the memory of a mother to hold on to.

Cicero looked back at his sister, so different from him, and smiled. He saw that she wanted to leave, to talk to those she knew better, but he tried to hold her back, just for a moment. He took her hand and she was amazed at the excessive affection.

"Clovia, please, just a question. Are you... are you happy?"

He wanted to know. For that he had crossed an entire continent. And now she, wide-eyed, didn’t answer. Why? Why didn’t she answer? He needed it, he needed an answer to that question, it was essential.

"It's my wedding day, of course I am." she said it too harsh, scolding, as if to tell him to mind his own business.

"Yes, of course, just to know... if you have had a happy life."

"Sure. Why shouldn’t I? I love my family and they love me. I have everything I need."

Sure. Good. She had been happy. So it was enough.

"No, no. It was just to tell you that... no matter how happy you were, you'll be even happier today. Best wishes to you, your spouse and your future family."

Clovia relaxed her shoulders, smiling nervously. She nodded.

"Thank you, Lepido. Really thank you, it's a beautiful thought. I renew my invitation to make yourself at home: enjoy the banquet, drink, celebrate with us! And now excuse me, I have to go, the ceremony will begin shortly."

Cicero nodded and left her hand. He followed her with his eyes as she left, coming back to her relatives, her family, her soon to be husband... like a she-wolf in a very close pack, yes. Too bad that Cicero, instead, was a solitary cat, made such by imposed hermitage. A cat with a weakness for crows.

_But there were no crows in Cyrodiil._

  

 

The party was over, the banquet dried up, the guests almost all gone. Clovia had left on horseback with her new husband, ready to build a new family, in a new house. Whereas Cicero, however, was still where he had stood forty years ago in that house, staring at the impluvium.

The evening had come down, the sun was burning the west and the first star had been shining for a while. Everything went out, except for crickets and fireflies, which came back to life. He hadn’t seen them for so long, fireflies... it was as if they had been extinguished for years.

"Cicero?"

He raised his head and saw Cassio staring at him from the other side of the impuvium.

"Everything fine?"

Cicero nodded.

"Yes. Yes, Cicero is fine, yes... he had what he wanted."

"And what did he want?"

"A confirmation."

"About what?"

Cicero shrugged. He looked around, saw everything even more false than when he had arrived. He understood that Cassio wouldn’t have understood. He didn’t want to tell him.

"Nothing. Nothing important. Now it’s time for Cicero to leave and disturb you no further. He has to go back to Skyrim."

"Skyrim? Were you in Skyrim all this time? Why did you end up there? You hate the cold."

Cicero shrugged again. A story too long, too long.

"Maybe... Cicero went here to see crows."

"C… crows?"

"Crows. They’re very... very delicate animals. They die quickly."

He didn’t even know why he was telling it to him, at that moment, the person and place less likely to understand him. He turned, then, panting. He couldn’t wait any longer.

"The olive tree. Cicero must see the olive tree."

"The olive tree?"

Cassio really liked to answer with other questions, apparently. Cicero began to remember why he hated him so much, even with immense love.

The jester walked towards the main gate of the wall. He had to go out, he had to see his olive tree. Because she was there, he knew. He knew he wouldn’t have seen her, but her soul... must be there.

Cicero ran. He heard Cassio behind him, but he didn’t care. He ran faster, opened the doors, turned left, and there... he stopped.

Petrified.

Because there wasn’t an olive tree.

But a dry stump.

He gasped. He turned his gaze, thinking he had lost it. Maybe it wasn’t there? Yes, it had to be like that. He had been away too much, how stupid, he couldn’t even remember where his olive tree was!

He chuckled, looked around... but there was nothing. Only that stump, cut at the base, so... dead.

"Cassio... Cassio... where..."

His brother was behind him, now, out of breath. He looked at him in disbelief, strangely, with one hand he adjusted his grizzled curls.

"What's up?"

"The olive tree... where is it? Where is the olive tree?"

"The olive tree? We cut it, it was diseased. It was dying, we decided to cut it down."

Strange. Strange that the same thing had happened to both her and the olive tree. It was dying, she was dying, they had decided to cut it... kill her... it was the same thing.

Cicero began to breathe hard, panicking. All that road, all that road... and now no olive tree? Nothing… nothing?

"... Morrigan? Aren’t you here, Morrigan?"

He started to cry. He couldn’t bear it. Weeks had passed, but he couldn’t bear it. He felt like that wound would’ve never healed. Beauty? Yes, he could see it, Beauty, but not enough. Not enough to feel well.

He gripped his head in his hands, pressed his temples hard. If it had been possible, he would’ve blown up his brain. It had become too heavy to bear, that sick and broken mind.

"Cicero, what's wrong with you? Who’s Morrigan?"

Didn’t he know her, then? They had taken everything from him: his clothes, his name, his family, his memory, and now she too? No. Someone had to remember her, besides him.

Cicero turned abruptly. He spoke sternly, tears digging his cheeks.

"She is the Princess. Morrigan, she... she was everything. And now I have nothing left. I just wanted a branch of this fucking olive tree! Just a fucking branch! What else do you want to take away from me, eh? You want my clothes, you want my name, you want my... madness? Don’t you see all this around here? False. All false, this disgusting green shirt, this stump, the empty impluvium... this isn’t my home. This isn’t me, this is... a scenography and I'm the only one who doesn’t know I'm on stage and... I'll never get out of it."

Cassio looked at him wide-eyed, petrified. Cicero didn’t want his pity, nor his understanding, because he knew that Cassio couldn’t even offer the latter. Then he turned back to the stump, knelt down, touched it, closed his eyes. He swallowed. He felt that a whole dream had gone. He knew he wouldn’t have seen Morrigan under the olive tree, but he had hoped at least to have peace, to imagine her sitting there, and instead... nothing. Nothing was left. The void.

He stroked the wood, its veins, ran his fingers over the cut part and felt the rings... he didn’t count them, he didn’t want to, because he was afraid they would’ve been twenty-one.

"At least she's happy, isn’t she?" he murmured, calmer, but tears still copious.

"Who?"

"Clovia. At least she's happy."

"Do you really care about her happiness?"

Cicero shrugged. Yes, of course he cared. Perhaps not out of kindness of heart, perhaps only out of selfishness, but it was something. It was better than wanting her dead.

"I just wanted to see... check... how the world changes if you save a life."

He said it, and he regretted it soon after. But now he had started, so much was worth going on.

"I wanted to check how the world changes when you save a life. Because I did it, again, you know, Cassio? I saved a life, and everything had become beautiful with her alive. But... it has been brief. I don’t think I had enough time to realize how not to use that dagger has changed my life and... the history itself. So I wanted to see how Clovia is, because... I wanted to see how it is... when someone who had to die doesn’t die. I wanted to see what it would’ve been like if Morrigan survived."

He wasn’t sure it made sense even to his ears, he didn’t dare to imagine for those of Cassio. Instead, unexpectedly, his brother joined him. He put a big hand on his shoulder.

"Clovia was happy, I swear. You did well to save her and I’ll always be grateful for it. And I can confirm that something beautiful can come out of your decision."

Cicero nodded. He was immensely grateful and he also thought that perhaps Cassio could understand much more than he thought. He should’ve made him more involved even as a boy, maybe he could’ve helped him not to become an assassin. He could’ve, yes... but now?

"Thanks Cassio. I... thank you. It's a difficult time but I’ll get over it. I'm glad I saw you again and I'm sorry if I didn’t come earlier, but it had been tough years."

Cicero stood up, wiped his tears. And Cassio, without saying a word, hugged him. A huge, powerful, strong hold, which had nothing to do with those of Morrigan, the only ones Cicero had become accustomed to.

But this time he returned. He hugged his brother and loved him, as he had loved him as a child. He was really happy to have seen him again. Really happy.

 

 

They talked again, and the night came down mercilessly. They laughed, telling each other what had happened in those long years. Then, almost morning, the horizon began to fade toward the east. Cassio invited Cicero to stay, but he couldn’t, really, he had to come back, he still had the Mother... and he would’ve always had her. But that was fine. It was his job. That everyday life had kept him alive after Morrigan's death, his closeness to the Mother had helped him not to get lost in the Void. He had hated her a bit, yes, but maybe it was right, all the children sooner or later hate the mother.

And so Cicero left, after getting his clothes back. He didn’t even stop to rest, he didn’t want to abuse his brother's hospitality. But he promised that he would’ve come back, that he wouldn’t have waited another fifteen years.

He came out of that house, from that courtyard, from those walls, caressed by the fresh air of the newborn morning. He stopped for a moment on the road, sighed, and started to walk.

It was at that precise moment that he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A dark stain, moving, on the olive tree stump.

He turned his gaze and saw it: a crow.

A real crow, a dark bird, not very big, maybe it wasn’t yet an adult. It was small, in short… a little crow.

Cicero didn’t approach it, he didn’t want to scare it. He stood still, watching it. The bird, its dark feathers like the terror of midnight, shook its wings and put his beak in profile, to better stare at Cicero with its sinister dark eye.

"Hi…"

The crow quickly raised and lowered the chest, motionless. From time to time it would twitch with his head or eyelid, but it did nothing else.

"I knew you'd be here."

He was dying to get close and touch her, but he knew she would’ve flown away. She was the Princess, yes, but in the form of an animal she also had animal instincts. She had been easy to frighten as a human, and would’ve been easy to frighten even and especially as a crow.

"I understood your plan, you know? Force me making peace with Cassio, before showing up. You're smart, aren’t you?"

The crow lowered her beak, testing the wood of the log, and seemed to be bowing.

"Um, yes, I'm sorry for the olive tree. That wasn’t how I had imagined our place. But... maybe it's better this way. The tree, too, is in the Void. You took it for yourself, it's fine."

The crow shook her wings again and opened them, slightly, without taking flight.

"Yes, all right, go. I get it."

But the crow didn’t mention leaving, she kept staring at him with her bent beak and her wings half-open, as if she were undecided about what to do.

Cicero smiled, shook his head. She was always the same.

He approached, fast, waving a hand in front of her.

"What are you doing here? Go! You’re free!"

The crow became frightened and, with a flutter of wings, finally hovered in the air. Cicero saw her leave, light, her outline only vaguely recognizable in the morning still dark.

"You who can, go. One day, maybe, I’ll join you."

He sighed again, and finally felt ready to go. The heart was lighter now that he had seen her. And, while walking, one thought in his head, always that one, now more and more heartening.

_Thus there were crows, in Cyrodiil._


	2. Life is an aviary

She had a little bird once.

It was a beautiful green parrot, fluffy feathers and curved beak. He had obtained two things from life: a belly always full and bars through which to dream the outside world. For the most part he behaved like all budgies: he used to chirp, imitate a few words, flutter, bath his feathers in the water bowl. Every now and then, however, he used to stop and remain motionless, standing on his perch. He looked out of the cage and stayed silent. Only in those moments he seemed real. In the rest of the time he was a self-reflecting image, a copy of another thousand parrots like him, following a script and acting incessantly. Instead, in the rare moments when he was aware of his captivity, he suddenly became alive... and dead at the same time.

This is how Modia Prodice felt when she looked at the center of the courtyard from behind the columns. She could get past those bars, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t imprisoned. She struggled to laugh and joke, eat and swim, do everything like every other day, but sometimes she just couldn’t help but sitting on the triclinium and looking through the bars.

Only in those moments, she really could see what was around her. She could see what she was becoming. If she heard Cassio crying for example, she remembered she had become a mother, and the only idea of breastfeeding made her feel disgusted. Then she was disgusted by herself for that disgust, but meanwhile time passed, she stayed still, and Cassio was assisted by a nurse. Because Modia hadn’t been able to take care of him since... since...

The girl looked down, meeting her feet imprisoned in sandals. The sandals clasped her feet, the laces of her tunic clasped her chest, the decorative ribbons clasped her head, the house clasped her soul... yet she couldn’t do anything but sit there.

Then, all of a sudden, just as she looked down, she saw another pair of feet. She looked up. It was Velleio.

She swallowed, trying to hold back nausea. He returned her gaze equally disgusted.

"The child. He’s crying. Are you going to do your duty or not?"

Modia blinked twice, trying to eliminate the veil that separated her from the rest of the world. But the veil didn’t go away, because it wasn’t on her eyes, it was inside. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure she was there. She wasn’t sure she was alive, she wasn’t sure she was herself. Everything around her felt fake.

"Where's Clovia?"

She had asked for it a million times, but had never received an answer. And then she would’ve continued, even if it would’ve taken two million times, or three, or twenty, or infinite.

Velleio flashed in his eyes, gray as his short hair.

"You have another child to look after now, why do you keep asking about that… thing?"

She wasn’t a thing. She was her baby. And he had taken her away.

"Where's Clovia?" she asked again.

Velleio tightened his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sighed, pretending to calm down in front of the servants. Because the doctor had told him: he must have patience, women sometimes have problems with their uterus, they become _hysterical_ and lose the sense of reality.

"Listen, Senator Gaudio will be here for dinner with his wife and children tonight. I want you to make yourself presentable. And smile, by Talos!"

Modia looked down again.

"Where's Clovia?"

At that point, he exploded. The old and rude man exploded towards her, too small, too thin, too young.

"SHE'S DEAD! That thing is dead, get over it! It took you too long to give birth and you choked her, okay? Now you have another child, you should look after him! You should stop whining and thank the gods for being alive! Stupid little girl!"

He jerked her by the tunic and Modia let him do it, without putting up the slightest resistance. Because she actually knew... she knew Clovia was dead. Her question was different.

"Yes but where is she?"

Velleio pushed her away and the girl fell back onto the triclinium. Her husband went off, his red cloak waving, and she stayed there, as so many times, staring at the courtyard. It was a simple question, and yet he couldn’t understand it: where was Clovia? Modia wasn’t crazy, she knew she was dead. But where did they put her? Had they buried her somewhere? Had they thrown her into the sea, fed to the dogs?

_Where was her baby?_

 

 

She had a little bird once.

He stood on the perch and looked out. He was so alone... and now she was too.

Since Velleio had left, there was nothing left. Not that she liked his company, but she certainly didn’t like non-company. Especially when someone else came for a banquet or a courtesy visit, and she never knew what to say. Sometimes... sometimes she didn’t seem to know how to speak. She knew the words but... they didn’t come out. She could only repeat those of others, like her parrot, or like Echo the nymph: she couldn’t say anything original. Then, often, it happened that someone asked her: "When will Velleio come back?". And she never knew how to answer.

_When will Velleio come back?_

_Never. He got tired. I was a very bad wife and she abandoned me at sixteen. Because I gave birth to twins, one alive and one dead, and I could no longer look at the survivor in the same way._

This she wanted to answer, but then she smiled and shut up. Cassio at her side, she tried to caress him, she really tried to pretend that she liked to feel his little head under her hand. Actually, she couldn’t stop thinking about Clovia, not even after two years.

On the other hand, she had always been one who cannot forget, she wasn’t able to _get over it_. On the wedding day she had cried, because she had recently had her first period, she was afraid of the old man who would have possessed her forever, and she knew that she would never get used to it. She had also cried the day that her husband had taken a book out of her hands for the first time. She had tried to tell him... to tell him that it was her passion, she loved myths, she loved to imagine being Proserpina adduced to the Underworld, or Echo with a beautiful voice. She also loved studying philosophy and the human body, and she knew she wasn’t _hysterical_ as they had told her, but her words had no weight in Velleio's ears.

And then he burned her books.

And she knew she would’ve never get used to it.

And so here she was, unable to speak now because she never knew what freedom of speech was. What was the point of telling the truth if everyone considered her _hysterical_?

Then she would shut up, pretend to love Cassio to the best of her ability, and then as soon as she could she would return to look at her courtyard from the triclinium.

 

 

She had a little bird once.

She loved that bird especially because he could fly. In a narrow space, of course, but it was something. She had tried to fly. A friend had persuaded her.

"Try this" she had said, offering her a bottle, "then we go out, and you'll see that you'll be better! You can’t always stay closed in this cage! Don’t care about your husband, he does not care about you!"

And then she had taken the bottle, had gulped it, and suddenly everything had dilated. The perception of things was different. It almost seemed to her to be truer through that drug, to be more of herself. Almost free. Almost. So sleeping with a red-haired sailor hadn’t seemed a bad idea.

The fundamental difference between her and her parrot, however, was that the drug had no continuous effect. Her wings faded as soon as the effect vanished. And then she found herself again with a bulging belly.

She wasn’t good at motherhood, no, no. She wasn’t good at life.

The only consolation she had was that the baby could be a reincarnation of Clovia, and so she started calling her by her name right away, hoping ... hoping she at least could hear her. And instead a male was born. He hadn’t heard her, then? Hadn’t he heard her prayers?

On that day, and only that day, a nineteen-year-old Modia Prodice understood that her daughter was dead. Forever.

 

 

She had a little bird once. But now she hardly remembered it.

She stayed abandoned on her triclinium because it was the least painful choice she had. Taking those drugs had become a necessity. How could she hope to win that last battle? She, who had always chosen to not react?

Then, one day, she had discovered that Cicero could write. She had read his diary: " _when birds are about to die they cannot fly anymore: they grope on the ground and at that point it is better to kill them._ "

Curious. Curious as everything brought back to her. How long it would’ve taken her to grope on the ground? How long it would’ve taken her son to put an end to her suffering?

At that moment she did nothing outside, she just pretended not to believe that her son had written those words. Actually, inside, she was happy. Because Cicero was like her. He was smart but he couldn’t speak. Like her, the nymph Echo, and the parrot. Modia knew he was intelligent, she could read it in his eyes. And this scared her.

Sometimes she stared at him for hours, without him noticing. Sometimes she tried to stare at him again, after their eyes had met. She hid her face a little behind the red veil and tried to talk to him.

_What you see is not me._

_I. Am. Not. Hysterical._

_I love philosophy, myths and medicine. I once used to love studying. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. And now I cannot tell you anything anymore because I'm trapped in the imitation of what others believe I am._

_Look into my eyes, son, and forgive me. You shouldn’t, but forgive me anyway, please. Can you do it? Can you believe I'm not hysterical? Can you believe all the hate that comes out from me is not mine?_

She had tried to tell him those things a lot of times, but in the end she had always looked away first, without speaking. Her son intimidated her: Cicero wasn’t like Cassio. Cicero was like her, and like her he had some problems, he had inherited them, he had inherited _something wrong_.

Modia, at twenty-two, knew she would’ve died at the hands of her son. She was just waiting to start groping on the ground.

 

 

Modia Prodice had a bird once. She couldn’t take it off her head.

A little green bird that had born and died in a cage.

A little green bird that had never managed to explain himself, forced to imitate the lives of others.

A little green bird that on his last day, had groped on the bottom of the cage, had looked out of the bars and had fallen asleep on the sight of that world he had never been able to live. As him, now, she was groping on the triclinium and looking one last time through the columns of the courtyard.

Modia Prodice: born in a cage, dead in a cage.

Lying on a triclinium covered in blood, words forever trapped in her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're heading to the international women's day, so I happened to think a lot about one of the most controversial female characters in "The Beauty of the Void". Of course Modia did horrible things, but in my head she has always been a victim, even if there wasn't space in the main story to explain why. Well, this is the answer: she was a child-bride with a severe post-partum depression, diagnosed as "hysteria". Since ancient civilization and until recent times, hysteria was used as an explanation to almost every kind of female symptom, and it's crazy to think we've managed to obtain actual diagnosis just in these recent decades and only in a small part of the world. A part from this, the other reason I wrote this is I didn't want Modia to be just an occasional villain, and I liked the idea that Cicero's predisposition to mental illnesses could be somehow inheritary.  
> Hope you enjoyed! Just know that I have in my mind a piece about Galla.  
> See you next time! <3


End file.
